


Words with Sherlock

by mycroftismight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Words With Friends, my brain does funny things when it's frustrated, words words words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:42:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftismight/pseuds/mycroftismight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John prided himself on being resourceful, quick on his feet, and a crack shot. None of that was of much use to him now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words with Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I can see John getting as frustrated as I do with WWF. It only followed that Sherlock would be a whiz at it!  
> (This is my first published ANYTHING in the Sherlock fandom...criticism would be much appreciated!)

John had survived a war.

He had survived the death of his best friend.

He had survived the shock of finding Sherlock sitting on the couch of 221B a year later. An alive, if painfully skinny Sherlock, who had spouted assurances that it had all been for his protection, that Moriarty really was gone this time, a Sherlock who had rambled on in a way that John didn’t realize was an apology in itself until afterwards.

(Sherlock’s nose hadn’t survived John’s “welcome back” quite as well. There was still a slight bump on the bridge that John would catch him trying to smooth down when he was telling a lie he expected to get caught out for.)

He’d survived their last case, involving a man with an unfortunate name (John figured that the killer’s parents hadn’t been entirely sober when they came up with “Doug Graves”) and his penchant for burying victims alive.

John prided himself on being resourceful, quick on his feet, and a crack shot. None of that was of much use to him now.

 

***

 

_Ukulele._

John stared at the screen in disbelief. Sixty-five points to Lestrade. He was being slaughtered, 467 to 358, and with four letters left to draw, John recovering was as likely as Sherlock disposing of the various biohazards he kept next to the jam. In other words, not very bloody likely.

Clenching a trembling fist and swallowing his frustration, John pushed his chair out, glanced over to where Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, and went to boil the kettle.

When he came back, Sherlock was bent over his computer, staring intently at the screen.

“Words with Friends,” John supplied.

Sherlock looked up at him, face blank.

“Scrabble?”

No reaction.

“Look, you…there are tiles, with letters on them. You try to organize the tiles into words and-“

“Yes John, I’m not an imbecile.” Sherlock turned his eyes back to the screen.

John sighed and moved closer.

Mrs. Hudson had asked if this “Words With Chums, was it dear?” was one of those internet things, and Sarah had laughed at him, “hunched over your phone as if staring at it could make the letters unscramble”. Mike had just given John a pitying look and told him to “Come out with the boys. Beer and rugby are better alternative than giving yourself a headache.”

No one understood the draw of the game, except Lestrade, and John couldn’t bloody well vent to him, could he. He would never live this loss down. Sally did play Words with Friends, but John hadn’t quite forgiven her for the short joke last week. Apparently, if he wanted to complain, it was to be to Sherlock.

“I was doing decently until I’d played “PIECES”. Now all I’ve got are vowels. Fat lot of use two I’s, an O, two U’s and two A’s are.”

John reached past Sherlock to close the window, but the mouse was suddenly no longer under where his hand was hovering, and Sherlock was clicking away madly. John’s eyes followed the quick placement of the tiles, tried to make sense of the movements, until Sherlock hit Enter and backed away from the computer with a smug look on his face.

Squinting at the screen, John tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

“ _Uoiauoi_. How is that- that’s not even a word, it can’t-“

The word submitted with a popping noise, and John’s score went up forty three points. He gaped at the computer for a moment, then turned to stare at Sherlock.

“Close your mouth John, it’s a Brazilian dialect.”

Without warning, Sherlock leapt over the coffee table, threw himself onto the sofa, and faced the wall. It was as if he hadn’t moved a single gangly limb. John gave the computer one last shocked glance, looked at Sherlock’s back, and realized how useless asking was.

 

***

 

Sherlock was already deep in his mind palace when he heard the muttered “I bet you can speak it too, you wanker,” as John moved back towards the kitchen.

There was a cup of tea on the coffee table when he turned to face it.


End file.
